Chapter 8: T.A. 2790 – False Hopes Are More Dangerous Than Fears
"It will be your duty from now on, to find a way to reclaim the mountain. I'll pass it on to you as soon as I'll step out of this door."
Thror wrapped a simple cloak round his shoulders and dragged its hood deep into his brow. It matched the rough clothes and the heavy boots he wore and it made him look unimpressive, not like a noble descendant of Durin any more and even aside this, he offered a strange sight to those, who knew him well – with all the regal attire gone: the narrow tiara, which had replaced the heavy crown since they had taken flight from Erebor, the gems and beads which had adorned his hair and beard, signs of his rank and nobility, and the rings which he had worn for almost half a lifetime.
'More like a beggar rather than a king', it came to Thrain's mind.
A beggar indeed, but a proud one – and an old one!
Never before had he noticed, that the king had become old. Of course, if the age started to reach out for them, it went quickly. It was no long struggle as it happened to be for the people of the race of men, accompanied by sickness, loss of sight or loss of strength. If age came to the dwarves, it happened within a short range of time and so also came death – quick, without any long suffering.
But with Thror it was different. He looked haggard and consumed by those long years spent in exile and by the knowledge, that he'd never see the Lonely Mountain again. The king had become bitter and cynical; he still blamed the elves for not having sent help and the young ones listened attentively when he started to tell them this story over and over again.
The day when the dragon had come, had changed him to the core.
It preyed on his mind that he had to give up the great halls of Erebor, that he had to leave all the gold and the treasure behind and that he had lost the Arkenstone.
The King's Jewel!
'It's like an obsession', Thrain thought. His mind was still set on the pure white gem as if it was connected to his father's mind in a strange, in a twisted way, befogging his mind and benumbing his thoughts.
Where the wish came from to see Khazad-dum – Thrain had no idea. All he could do was to guess and that he wasn't willing to do.
"Take this", Thror told him, handing a small box over to his son: "I will not risk taking it with me. I want you to keep it safe until I'm back or until you become king. You'll know its value and you'll know how to use it."
It was the last Thrain ever saw of his father and king: How he grabbed his bundle, how he went out of the door and how he and Nar disappeared: Two small figures heading north, soon nothing more but two shadows in the first light of a misty morning...
"Do you think, it's possible?" A thoughtful Thrain inhaled a deep drag from his pipe just to exhale it slowly and even more thoughtful.
"I beg your pardon?" Fundin raised his gaze, not sure, if he got addressed or if his companion just soliloquised.
It was long after midnight and it was all calm around them. The young ones went to catch some sleep a while ago, after they had some lively discussions about everything and nothing again. His younger son, Dwalin, wanted to hear everything they were able to remember about Erebor and its beauty and once more he regretted that he had never seen it. In vain they tried to explain to him, that it had not been a pleasure to witness the dragon stomp through the halls: He felt betrayed of a memory all of his friends shared.
First a plate of cookies Dis had brought only for him had reconciled him and he was still beaming when they were long gone. It was not to overlook that he had grown fond of the young dwarrowdam, but it was not his decision to make. If she'd ever choose a husband, it would be following the ancient rules of their kin:
It would be her choice and neither her father nor any other male of her family would be allowed to interfere.
Fundin smiled at this thought. He would not mind to welcome Dis amongst his family, he was just not sure if that was, what the young princess wanted...
"Do you think, it's possible", Thrain addressed him again: "To reclaim the Lonely Mountain."
"Well", he reached out for his mug of zûl: "it depends on if you want an honest answer or if you want to hear a simple yes or no."
"An honest answer would be required!"
"Then you shall get one: I'd say the same to you as I said to your father. You can go there, you can make a try, but the losses, you'll suffer, will be much bigger than the prize you'll win. We have both been there, we have both faced the beast. We are lucky that we survived. Many of our kin did not. And don't think, help would come from the other kingdoms."
"What if there would be a way in, the dragon does not know?"
Noticing Fundin's inquiring gaze, Thrain handed a carefully folded piece of parchment over to him. The other beheld it attentively and his eyes widened in surprise when the unfolded document revealed a skilfully sketched map.
"The Mountain!?"
"It is! My father sketched it and if we can believe his notes, there must be a way in."
"Five feet high the door and three may walk abreast", Fundin recited the runes. His hand sank and he cocked an eyebrow: "If that's a hint for a hidden door, it cannot be a small one..."
"What, if I tell you that there is not just a map and a hidden door, but also a key?"
Thrain hesitated for a moment, before he presented a well forged, massive and heavy key to his trusted friend and confidant.
"A key, indeed", Fundin replied: "But do you have any idea, which door it belongs to?" He stroked his beard and beheld the key again: "That might be useful to know."
"I know, my father escaped through a hidden side entrance by a hair's breadth when he tried to save the Arkenstone. Just a narrow corridor led there, narrow enough that the dragon wasn't able to follow. But he never told me, where this entrance was settled, which was no great help as..."
"...hidden doors are hidden and invisible." Fundin smirked: "Let's face it, my friend: even if you have a key and a map now, you'll not find this door."
"The children told me of another side gate..."
"Yes, but they also told you that the whole ceiling crashed down and blocked the corridor behind. The price you paid was high." Fundin shook his head: "If there is a chance to enter the Lonely Mountain again, then we don't have the skills. We cannot march through the front gate, we cannot sneak in through a hidden door, we don't know anything about and we won't find allies, who'll dare to face the beast that sits on its lair now."
"My father must be convinced that there is a way back. He also left this for me!" He took a heavy ring from his finger, an old one, engraved and adorned with a sparkling deep blue sapphire.
This ring – it was not a gift from a father to his son, it was more...
"By my beard! Whatever the meaning of this is, Thror must be convinced that it's safer in your hands now than it would be in his."
"Legend says, that this was the first ring forged and given to the dwarves, and legend also says, that this is the only one the Dark Lord Sauron never gained."
"He gave it to you for just one reason, then..."
"To keep it out of reach if he should come across orcs or other creatures who served the Dark Lord once..."
The two fell silent.
Thrain was not sure what to think about it. If Thror was convinced that there was a way back to the Lonely Mountain, why had he been that hell-bent to visit the valley of Azanulbizar and the halls of Khazad-dum...
What was it that lured his father there?
He beheld the ring, but as long as he stared at it – there was no answer to any of his questions...
"My lord, I beg you! Don't enter Durin's halls all on your own. You said, you came here to see Kheled-zaram, the lake of the stars, and to see Durin's stone. Mahal blessed us and let us have a look at both – the lake and the stone. Let us leave now, let the matter rest, my lord."
Nar knelt in front of his king. He looked at him imploringly, but Thror would not listen.
"Nothing moved, since we arrived here, my friend. For three days. The valley is calm and there is no sign of an enemy expecting us."
"That is, what troubles me, my lord. It is too calm. Does it not make you wonder? That nothing moves? No bird, no deer, no leaf? This place gets watched, we get watched."
"Do you think, the gate would remain unguarded, if someone would await our arrival?"
"Unguarded? No! But don't ask me, my lord, for I'm nothing more but a simple scribe. I know nothing about war and battle and, nonetheless, I can feel that things are not the way they seem to be."
"Don't be afraid! What evil could wait for me here? In this place, which once would have been my heritage? Am I not the king? Am I not the heir of Durin? It is my right by birth and blood to enter these halls and no one will deny this to me."
Nar shook his head as he listened to Thror's words. They left him feeling at unease, and he feared that there would be no reasoning with his old friend and king.
It was an ancient longing which had lured Thror here, rooted deep within his heart:
The longing to lay an eye on the beauty and the miracles of Khazad-dum, the wish to wander its halls and corridors and the desire to dwell where Durin once had dwelt, the father of their kin. And Nar knew, not even an army would be able to keep his king from giving in to this desire.
He lowered his head, but Thror placed a hand on his shoulder and explained to him in a low voice: "This will be my last opportunity to see the halls of my ancestors. Don't you think I know that I got older? I'm tired, my friend, and there won't be another journey except one when we'll return. Mahal's blessings will be with me and Durin's spirit will guide me. So, don't be afraid of an unknown shadow where I am not afraid. That is what I demand from you, nothing more and nothing less. Wait for me outside the gate."
Nar didn't give him a reply. He just nodded and got up. The scribe bowed deep in honour of his king and he watched when Thror followed the path down to the valley and straight towards the great Eastern gate of Moria.
There was no hint of a doubt and there was no sign of weakness.
Thror went to enter Moria and he went as the king of Durin's folk.
First, when he passed the gate and when he entered the corridor behind, it was, that Nar dared to move. He hurried down the path to follow his king and he would wait for him how long ever it would take him to return.
How long did he sit outside the gate, well hidden amongst the dense brushwood, his gazed fixed on the entrance?
How long did he wait for Thror to return that they finally could leave the valley?
His last count told him three days; three endless days, where he neither dared to move, nor eat or drink. His limbs felt numb, his eyes did burn and his stomach growled from hunger, but he did not dare to leave his hidden overlook. Too afraid was he, to miss a move.
It was, when the sun went down for the third time that he got addressed in a harsh and demanding tone, by a voice, rough and hoarse and filled with scorn and malice: "We know you're there. Step forward! Quickly, vermin! We have a message for you from our master."
Nar had no idea how he managed to get up. His heart was beating up to his throat, fear did almost choke him and his legs were close to giving in. He swallowed hard, but no word, no tone would leave his dry and split lips while he almost crawled to get the distance covered which separated his hideout from the gate.
"Tell everyone who wants to hear it, that not Thror is king of these caverns, but our master!"
A giant's fist seemed to press his chest together, when Nar struggled for air, only one step afar from panicking, but he picked up all his courage asking: "Whom do you name your master?"
"Have a look yourself!"
Following those words, something got thrown out of the gate, falling and rolling down the steps until it came to lie in the middle of the stairs, halfway up and halfway down.
It took the scribe a moment, before he realised what this lifeless and violated mass was that lay in front of him.
A scream escaped his lips, full of pain and anguish. His eyes teared up and he meant his chest must splinter into pieces. He bit his lips, his face an ashen mask, when he stumbled up the stairs. The broken body, those bloody leftovers, those twisted limbs...what lay in front of him now, barely recognizable as the living being it once had been, it once had been his king, his friend...
And his pain was not enough, it would not end. Next to him lay, the broken eyes now without light and life, the king's head, severed and disgraced.
Engraved in his brow, in dwarvish runes, he read: AZOG...
Nar collapsed to his knees, his face buried within Thror's motionless chest, and he cried and cried until a cold evening breeze cooled down his mind and made him raise his gaze. He straightened and dared to speak: "I cannot take his body home, so, let me take his head, at least, that we can bury our king and honour him..."
"Shove off, dwarvish scum, and take this for messenger services. We'll take care for the proper burial of your king!"
A small purse landed close to him, filled with golden coins.
Nar stared at them in horror, but he did not dare to talk back once more.
The king was dead, tortured, disgraced, dishonoured...and nothing would ever bring him back.
His eyes teared up again, when he picked up the purse and when he stumbled down the stairs, blinded by tears and tossed by sobbing...
When the last sunlight slowly vanished, he turned round again and his broken heart got torn into shreds anew – when the orcs streamed out of the gates of Khazad-dum and hacked apart the body of the king...